


a truth you can't shake

by nocturnalKnight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, F/M, Fluff and Angst, My Unit Named Something Other Than Byleth, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sylvain Runs Away AU, Well More Like Younger Teenagers AU, Well she gets them eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalKnight/pseuds/nocturnalKnight
Summary: "But if I thought I could have escaped, I would have tried. I'd leave behind House Gautier and the life of a nobleman...and anybody who knew I had a Crest.""...if I’d run away, and joined up with you and Jeralt somehow, met you as teenagers, would you have liked me?"Or: Sylvain runs away when he's 14 and joins up with Jeralt's mercenaries. He meets the curious girl among them and they begrudgingly start a friendship with lasting ramifications.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 16
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

Sylvain makes the attempt when he’s fourteen. 

He knows the only other way out is in a casket, so he cuts off half his hair, dyes it a shitty, muddy brown. It’s the last thing he does in the dead of night with a pack full of supplies. It’s Faerghan summer - still colder than most - and he’s shivering as the water drips down his neck. He could be any boy off the street, like this. He puts on his sturdiest winter clothes and straps a lance onto his back, gives the whole chilly estate a hearty fuck you, and vanishes into the night. 

He’s done this before. His attempts have gone into the double digits, but this time he’s prepared. He’s told Felix goodbye - the only one who wouldn’t rat him out no matter what - and he’s studied the guard rotations for months. He knows the secret passages to be in, at what time, who dozes off when. The furthest he’s made it is a week, but he’s determined. This time, he’ll make it across the border into Alliance territory, and disappear. No more secret ambushes between him and Miklan. No more Major Crest hanging above him like an axe. No more crushing responsibility. He’s going to be free.

* * *

He’s not going to make the mistake of going into town again. This time, he sticks to a dirt road and keeps walking until he can’t anymore, then sets up measly camp and falls asleep on the hard ground, covered in grass.

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s high noon, and he eats the bread he’s packed ravenously. They’ve noticed he’s missing now, and soon they’ll be swarming everywhere: he has to keep going.

* * *

On the third night of his walking near the woods, there’s a mercenary caravan parked nearby, and he swallows his courage and approaches them. They’re gathered near a roaring fire. There’s a truly impressive, grizzled, scarred man roasting fish over a skewer, some adults mulling about. He instantly notices the girl. She’s the same age as him, maybe a bit older. She’s pretty in a way Sylvain immediately picks up on, even though most of the time he doesn’t even know what to do around pretty people, he just likes to act charming and provoke Ingrid. He thinks it’s funny. He doesn’t even really understand girls or likes them too much, especially since some of them have those weird looks in their eyes around him now. She has long blue hair tied in a ponytail and pale sky eyes, and she’s in sensible furs and boots. All of them pick up on his presence within a second and he notices, belatedly, the sword strapped to her waist - her hand on the grip is so quick he didn’t even see it. The leader, he assumes, doesn’t even bother, just keeps grilling. 

“What do you want, boy?”

“Are you headed west?” He asks. 

“I might be, I might not,” The man replies. “What’s the interest?”

“I’m trying to get to Derdriu,” Sylvain says, lying, picking the capital of the Alliance. Maybe he’s not even lying. The Aquatic Capital seems as good a place to get lost in as any. 

“Oh? And what does a boy with no parents want to do in Derdriu?”

“We got separated, and that’s where they’re headed,” Sylvain lies easily. “I can pay you. Not much, but-”

“I’m a mercenary, boy, not a transport service,” the man barks. “Get going.”

A woman with a stern face and kind eyes looks at him. He tries his best to give her his pleading puppy dog eyes and she laughs, not meanly. 

“Ah, Jeralt, what’s the harm in another kid? We could use the coin, and you’re always saying she needs to be around more people her age.” The woman says. The name rings a bell, but Sylvain’s too focused on just getting past the next second. 

“It just seems troublesome,” Jeralt argues. 

“I can pull my own weight,” Sylvain butts in. 

“You look noble born, boy. I highly doubt it. Can you even fight?”

“Yes.” This, at least, he knows. He’s not Felix, but they’ve been putting a lance in his hand since he could talk. Furthermore, he’s had to train with Dimitri and Glenn and Ingrid and Felix, all of them prodigies in their own right. He’s been raised to defend the Mountains since they knew he had a Crest. Fighting, he can do. 

Jeralt jerks his head over to the pretty girl, who unsheathes her sword with a whisper. Unlike Felix, who’s always been easy to needle, her face is a blank slate with dead eyes. She still hasn’t said a word. 

Fuck. 

“Don’t kill him,” is Jeralt’s only word to her, and to Sylvain, he says, “This is my daughter. Fight her, and we’ll see. On my mark.”

He scrambles to drop his pack to the ground and get into a proper stance with his lance. The whole camp is watching now, and there’s only the sound of the fire crackling as Jeralt brings down his hand. 

She lets him strike first, almost like a pitying courtesy, before she bears down on him. Her strength is inhuman, he decides, as he backs up from each blow. She’s not Dimitri, but it’s close. A minute in he knows it’s his fight to lose, but desperation makes him claw for every inch. She doesn’t have any openings, is quicker than Glenn and stronger than Ingrid. This is looking...bad. The only advantage he has is that his weapon has a longer reach, as well as his height; she keeps having to dance out of his way. 

He can tell she’s on par with adults, however. It’s frustrating, because he can tell the gap of skill between them; he’s only been trained to fight formally, and she’s probably killed people without blinking. She’s also got more patience; he can tell she’s just waiting him out, wearing him down, until he blinks and she’s spun the lance out of his hand with her blade and the tip is at his throat. 

He puts his hands up in surrender. She doesn’t withdraw her weapon until her father clears her throat, and only after a long hostile pause does she retract it. 

“Lasted longer than I thought he would,” the woman muses. 

“Not bad, boy,” Jeralt says, with a contemplative look. “Maybe you’re not just dead weight.”

“I lost,” Sylvain hears himself say, heart hammering. 

“You were never going to win against my girl, boy,” Jeralt says. “I’m impressed you even made it that long. What’s your name?”

“Finn.” Another lie, easy on his tongue. “My name is Finn.”

“Well, Finn. How much gold are you offering?”

Sylvain tosses over a pouch full of coin, and Jeralt raises his eyes. “Yeah, you’re noble born, all right. We’ll take you as far as Myrddin, food included, but you’ll need to pull your own weight. This isn’t a fancy carriage, or anything you’re used to. Any funny business and she slices you up. Are we clear, boy?”

“Yes sir.” He’s vibrating, he’s so excited. He’s never travelled with other people before. “Thank you. I’ll do whatever. You won’t regret this.”

Jeralt snorts and hums noncommittally. “Sure.”

The girl’s already forgotten he’s existed, seems like - she’s plucked the fish out of her father’s hands and bitten off a sizable portion, chewing, and plops next to him. Jeralt looks at him and says, “My name’s Jeralt. These are my mercenaries.” 

Sylvain finally remembers why Jeralt sounds so familiar. “Wait, you’re Jeralt the _Blade Breaker? ”_

One of the men whoops, and the woman who’d spoken up for him says, “Boss, you’re so famous, you’re making us look bad.”

“Arrin, don’t talk nonsense. They wrote about me in some books, I beat up some people, that’s hardly famous.”

“You’re rumored to be the strongest knight in Fodlan’s history,” Sylvain says in awe. He can’t believe his luck. Another woman behind him whistles, long and slow. 

Arrin cups her hands around her mouth and starts cheering. Jeralt looks amused and annoyed, and he waves his arm at her. “Shut your trap, boy, flattery will get you boxed in the ears. What are you lot doing, eavesdropping? We’re moving soon. Not a lot of daylight left. Kid, give me back my fish. You’ve already had plenty.”

The girl passes it back and gets up. Sylvain darts over to her, intent on making a good first impression. She’s beautiful and deadly, which is honestly all he needs to know. 

He sticks his hand out. “Finn,” he says, grinning his best charmer’s smile. “That was an incredible fight. What’s your name?”

She looks at his hand and then back up at him. Not in a flabbergasted, disgusted way, but in a cool, indifferent way, like she can’t even fathom why he would bother. He feels his smile fade around the edges, but he keeps it on and waits. She nods at him, and then turns back around. 

He’s offended, and also surprised, because usually that works perfectly even when the girl doesn’t know he has a Crest or is a noble. 

Jeralt’s voice floats from behind him. “My kid isn’t really the social type, boy, don’t take it personally,” and Sylvain shrugs. He’s a little hurt, but he figures maybe...she’s just used to killing. He’s seen soldiers with those eyes, older men and women than her, and she’s his age. Maybe she’s just...cold inside.

* * *

His hands get calluses from pulling rope, learning to set up a proper camp and fishing (Jeralt even lets him hold his rod for a second). Arrin takes pity on him and teaches him some useful things, and most of the time he’s left to his own devices as they travel from the woods to another town where he keeps his cloak on at all times and tries to be as nondescript as possible. There are close calls - too many - as there are Gautier and even Fraldarius troops looking for him, but he can tell who they are. There aren’t posters yet or a public call - that would disgrace the family, no doubt, he thinks darkly - so he can still fly under the radar. He’s made it past a week now. He isn’t homesick in the least, but he hopes Glenn, Felix, Dimitri and Ingrid are okay. 

The girl still hasn’t said a single word to him, or has uttered anything to anyone that he could hear. The adults give her a wide berth except her father. This creeps him out. Sometimes, Sylvain will try to speak to her, and he’ll get that nod again, or a blank stare. He doesn’t even know if she’s listening to a word he’s been saying. Probably not. 

Most of the time, if he’s not exhausted from the constant walking, or hiding, or foraging or manual labor, he’s reading. He snuck two books in - his favorite stories, he and Ingrid would raid the library together. She always liked tales of knighthood. He always liked adventure stories. He reads while he’s waiting for clothes to dry from the river, while they’re out doing mercenary work, while the moon’s high and the night is cold. They’re getting closer to the border now between Faerghus and Leicester, and the wintry summer is giving way to a warmer autumn that the lands East gets to enjoy. Snow in the forest has begun to melt with each passing mile. 

One day he’s reading under a tree during the golden hour as he’s waiting for dinner - he caught some of the fish today and gutted it - and he sees her approach. She’s silent and ominous, but he still admires her abstractly, like a painting that could also murder him with ease. She’s fluid and lovely in a way that most nobles would kill for, but also entirely unaware of it. Her hair is done up in a severe bun that makes her look older than she is, and he thinks that she and Ingrid would probably get on well. 

It’s there that she speaks her first words to him. “What are you reading?” Her voice is smooth as cream, just as he’d imagined. 

He’s so stunned that he can’t speak, but he’s Sylvain Jose Gautier, so that lasts for only a second. “A novel,” he says. “About a heroine on a journey to find her mother. But instead, she finds herself.”

She squints at him, and then as if deciding something, she says, “My name’s Jun.”

He has a million questions and statements. _You can talk?!_ At the forefront of them. As if she can hear them or maybe it shows in his face, she narrows her eyes at him. Yeah, she and Ingrid would get along really well. “Yes, I can speak.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t know if you were worth speaking to.” She says bluntly, shrugging. “Thought maybe you’d run off by now.” 

That stings. But after a while dealing with Glenn’s sarcastic remarks and Miklan’s constant abuse, it’s not too bad. 

She continues. “Dinner’s ready. Fish is good.”

“Is that why you talked to me?” He says, finding himself entertained. She’s so _weird_. “Because of my fish?” 

“Maybe.” She replies. “I wanted to know what you were reading.”

“Or maybe,” he says, “I’m too handsome to resist.”

She stares at him. “I can go back to not speaking,” she says unflinchingly. 

“Noooooooo! Please,” he begs. “I want to ask you so much. I’ve been dying. These old people are so boring. Except Arrin and your father. They’re alright, I guess.”

“They’re not...that old.” She says, showing hesitance for the first time. “I think.”

“They’re ancient. I don’t know how you survived before I came along.” He says. 

Now she’s definitely got some kind of expression on. He's delighted she even can make those, even if the expression is weary and familiar because every friend he's ever had has directed it at him. “However did I manage,” she says dryly. 

“I’m here now, you can rest easy,” he barrels on. He closes his book and smiles up at her even though the butter yellow light around them is nearly blinding. “I’m glad I’m worth speaking to.” 

She mutters something about potentially changing her mind and turns on her heel, and he scrambles after her. “Wait up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: has a million other stories to write, including my current long huleth fic  
> me: starts a new sylveth fic (honestly no promises as to whether I'll update this more than infrequently or even finish it, but for now the idea has just gripped me)


	2. Chapter 2

Sylvain tags along on all the duties Jun’s assigned to, sticking like raindrops to glass. His goal is to one day make her smile. Maybe he’s demented, but he wants it so badly. 

One early morning, as he’s walking around unable to sleep, he hears her voice round out the chorus to a drinking song as she’s climbing a tree. Her tone isn’t perfect, but the hint of the girl underneath who can hum and sing her heart out when nobody’s watching, as she’s trying to pick fruit off a branch is - he likes it. The warmth that’s yet unrevealed to him as she’s singing about escaping a small town and making her own way in the world. 

But he’s still a 14 year old boy with no filter, so all his attempts to get to know her are as ham-fisted as you could imagine.

“How many people have you killed?”

She doesn’t get offended at the question, just tilts her head upward as if she’s thinking about it. He can hear Ingrid yelling at him in the background, along with his etiquette tutors. _Goddess, Sylvain, you can’t just ask someone how many people they’ve killed._ He’s discovered that it’s hard to provoke Jun, unlike most of his friends; she has this inability to be too irritated by anything. Unless he really tries. The flash of dry, sarcastic humor in their first meeting was like a silverfisher on water; flitted away before he could capture it. 

He’s always been insensitive, running at the mouth and talking in lieu of thinking; it’s a good thing he can usually talk his way back out of it unless it’s his brother. But with Jun, he doesn’t even have to try. They’re hanging out by the lake, after he’d pestered her to come eat with him - Jeralt had tried to make a half hearted warning to him and relented when Sylvain had reasoned, correctly, that Jun would’ve killed him before he could even try anything remotely funny. Jun had shrugged and acquiesced. 

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “A lot. I go on missions sometimes and I’ve had to defend the camp from bandits.” 

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know?_ ”

“Yes,” she says slowly, like he’s stupid. He quickly learns a lot of her answers to his questions are I don’t know, like _where were you born, how old’s your dad, do you believe in the Goddess, have you heard of the Church of Seiros_ , etcetera. He wants to think that she’s just messing with him or being mysterious, but it’s dawning on him that she might genuinely just not know, and she’s been sheltered from - or just aggressively disinterested in - the rest of Fodlan most of her life. It’s a little unbelievable, because he’s lived under Church dogma and scripture and appointed hierarchy his whole life. Maybe it’s sacrilegious but he’s excited. Maybe this is what it’s like to be free. To not feel the structures of anything holding him back. Be anyone, do anything. It’s all he’s ever wanted. 

So, his next question to her is just a gimme. “Have you ever had a boyfriend?” He asks slyly. 

“No,” she answers, and she finishes her skewered fish and flicks the stick at him. It lands perfectly on his forehead. 

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You were going to ask me something even more ridiculous after that.” 

“I wasn’t!” He totally was. He was going to say something along the lines of, _do you know how beautiful you are?_ Aside from Ingrid, who’s like, basically one of the brothers he wished he had, he’s managed to charm every girl he’s ever met. Jun is like an alien. 

“You’re a strange boy,” she says, looking at him. “You ask a lot of questions.” 

“I’m strange? You’re bizarre,” he replies. There’s a sneaking suspicion he has that he wants to confirm. “Let me ask you something else. Do you know what a Crest is?”

“No. What’s that?”

He shuts his eyes tightly and experiences something like a great thrashing around in his core. _What’s that?_

She doesn’t know anything. It’s unbelievable. Is this what it’s like, outside the gates of Faerghus? He knows his situation is special, and his noble standing is probably biased, but it’s another thing entirely to hear it and see it. 

“Nothing important,” he chokes out. He shoots upright like a jackknife. He has to get away. He can't be here. 

* * *

He’s huddled under a tree with his chin on his knees when she comes to find him. The sky, unlike the day they started talking, is grey. He can smell the metallic, anticipatory petrichor already coming, the silence resonating before the first thunderclap. 

“Are you okay?”

His voice is rough and he’s mean when he wants to be, “Why do you care?” And he immediately regrets it. He’s exhilarated. He’s free. But he’s also so out of his depth he feels like he’s falling. “Jun, I’m sorry - ”

 _You don’t know what a Crest is. I want your life. Let’s trade. You have a father who loves you for you, nothing else._ He could pry the words out of his mouth and let them tumble onto the forest floor. Would she even understand? 

“You’re not. You’re upset,” she says quietly. “You don’t have that mask on.” 

“What mask?” He scrambles to put a charismatic smile on, and she points at his face without any kind of regard. 

“That one. Your face slipped. You look more real without it,” she says plainly. 

He has no idea how to respond to this but stares at her, flabbergasted at being exposed so utterly and her candor stripping him bare with a handful of sentences. 

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” he says. “You don’t even know what a Crest is - ”

“I like your real face better,” she continues to talk, silencing him. “The other one makes me want to punch you.” 

She’s so disarmingly honest and mercilessly blunt, it’d make Glenn proud. He chokes on the rest of his words as they try to wrestle their way out of his windpipe. He finally manages to get out, “You are the _weirdest_ girl I’ve ever met.” 

“Yes, it’s been said.” She says matter-of-factly. Then, her expression flickers briefly before softening. Or did he just imagine it? “You’re mad.” 

“I’m not mad, I’m just stunned by your beauty,” he quips, trying to hold on to any semblance of dignity.

“There’s that face again. Don’t make me punch you,” she deadpans. “How do I cheer you up?”

“What?”

“I’ve - offended you. I should compensate,” she says. “How do I do that?” 

If it was anyone else he’d think she was mocking him. He barely knows this girl - just asked her a ton of rude questions and gotten monosyllabic answers - and she doesn’t know him at all. So he dodges. He squares up to her with the grin he already knows she finds infuriating. Ingrid usually does punch him after whatever he dares to say after he turns on the charm. 

“You could kiss me, for starters,” he says with a wink. 

There’s a long, loaded pause as they stare at each other, deep in the forest. Her expression doesn’t change one bit. For a second he thinks she actually considers it. (In his dreams.) 

“I should slap you,” she states. 

“I could be into that,” he replies. 

“You have a death wish,” she says, and then, “Are you like this with every girl you know?”

He harkens back to his recent interactions with Ingrid and shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Is everyone you know like you?”

He thinks of Felix, trailing after Glenn and Dimitri with devotion, a sword practically molded into his hand and overshadowed by not just one fantastically sarcastic brother but a future king. He thinks of Ingrid, who’s already getting marriage proposals because of her Crest even though she’s been betrothed since birth and smiling through it all. He thinks of Dimitri, who’s every inch the valiant prince but still shows cracks every time they try to beat the necessity of violence and Cresthood into him. He thinks of every girl who’s endured his ridiculous overtures just because they know who he is, a point Miklan has had no trouble pointing out. He presses down on the tender pulse point of his right wrist with his left hand as if the veins could, should burst from the pressure alone. 

“No,” he replies, “But believe me when I say everyone’s just as good at pretending.”

* * *

They give each other a wide berth again after that. It’s back to no talking, no questions, even though he’s curious about who exactly the enigmatic girl is underneath all that vacuity. But he had to go and twist it all ugly and complicated already, which is about the only thing he really knows how to do with girls anymore. 

After a week of cold shoulders across the fire, Arrin smacks him upside the head. 

“I don’t know what’s going on, but you look miserable, boy.” She says, as the whole camp has adopted _boy_ instead of his heavy handed insistences on _Finn_. “She looks...even more emotionless than usual. I didn’t think that was possible. Go talk to her and fix it.”

“I don’t know how,” he says. “I’m not fantastic at mending fences with girls.”

“Seiros...I don’t have time for this teenage drama. Do you have a brain underneath that terrible head of hair? _Fix. It._ ”

* * *

He thinks. He thinks hard. He could bring her flowers. He could make her food. A lot of things he could do are off the table because they’re on the road and he’s not Sylvain Jose Gautier, heir: he’s just Finn. Still, he’s always had his words. He just needs to make them count. 

He blurts out, the next time they’re at the lake on laundry duty, “I’m sorry I’m an asshole.”

Her hands are full of sopping wet clothes and her eyes are blue moons when she turns to look at him. She’s so lovely it hurts, he realizes.

“Can we just be friends again? Or try to be? Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Finn. I’m an idiot.” 

“You feel sorry for me,” she says slowly. Her face isn’t that scary blankness anymore, it’s forming a looming stormcloud, lightning erupting. It’s kind of sick that he’s nearly thrilled to see another emotion on her even as he’s terrified of her. “You think I’m dumb and weird and you _pity_ me,” her voice begins to rise. “Arrin put you up to this. You don’t want to actually be my friend. You have normal friends. You’ve talked about them. Don’t put on the mask with me.” 

He’s panicking because he’s never seen her angry before, whatever burgeoning bond they were building easy to break in the newness of it all. “Jun, I didn’t mean-”

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” she parrots back at him. “You don’t even know what a Crest is.” 

“Jun, that’s just it! You don’t have to care about any of it!”

“Why does that make you so angry?” Now they’re just yelling, laundry being put aside angrily and two teenagers arguing at each other at the lip of a lake. He’s never plainly spoken about this stuff with anyone, the Faerghan courtesies and knighthood running deep. But they’re not in Faerghus anymore. He’s been sleeping on cold hard ground and breaking bread with hired blades. None of the rules apply anymore.

“Because I _want it_ ,” he says. “I want what you have.” 

“What, having no friends my own age and you looking at me like I’m a freak?” She snaps back, then shuts her mouth like that wasn’t what she intended to say. He gazes at her, and it hits him: this is the girl underneath too. He’s been treating her like a weird exhibition to poke at and he feels like a shithead. 

“You’re _not_ ,” he says, “you just scare me, and not because you’re weird. I like that you’re weird. I’m jealous so that makes me a jerk sometimes, okay? I really am sorry. But that’s not why I want to be your friend. You’re cool, and I like your singing voice, and-” 

Jun stills, the anger losing its grip. “You heard me sing?”

“I really like it.”

For the first time, he sees Jun be rent voluntarily speechless; unlike her aloof silences at the beginning this feels blatantly more. Like she’s embarrassed. He goes on to say, “It’s nice.”

The faintest pink stains her cheeks and he wants so much to kiss her in that moment it feels like a tidal wave crashing in his chest. 

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Sylvain tilts his head. “What, fine?” 

“Fine, we can _try_ to be friends,” she insists, suddenly enraptured with the tree behind him. “I don’t understand you at all, but fine.” 

He grins. She shoots him a begrudging glance. Jun starts to carry the wet clothes in a straw basket back to camp, him trailing behind with his own load. If he didn’t know better he’d think she’s rushing away from him, neck slightly flushed. 

Jun accuses, as she’s walking ahead, “You’re easy to please.”

He replies, ignoring that jab, “But that means you do want to understand me? Right? You like me?” 

Jun groans. “Don’t push it.” 

To him it just sounds like victory.


	3. Chapter 3

Finn redoubles his efforts. Sometimes he’s done Jun’s chores before she can even start them and he sits with her at every meal. Jun knows he’s trying, but she’s still wary. 

She’s watching him tamping out the fire before bed when she poses her query. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He grunts, finishing the last of it with a firm press of dirt and plopping down on a log with a sigh. They’re both alone in the near pitch-black darkness, lit only by some faint moonlight through the trees, everyone else preparing to rest in tents nearby. Jun can only make out the shape of him silhouetted against some trees, which makes it easier. 

“Why are you trying so hard with me?”

Jun’s been trying to imagine his life from the snippets Finn’s told her. He won’t mention his family, but he talks about his four friends who’ve seamlessly been in his life since birth: the horse girl, the swordmaster, his best friend who’s always trying too hard and a boy with inhuman strength and equally monstrous sense of duty. What’s that like, to have a life with friends built in without even trying? To never be alone? What’s it like to know you have that to return to? 

Why try for anything else, especially with a girl that scares you?

* * *

Sylvain hadn’t blinked an eye at escaping. He loves Ingrid, Glenn, Felix and Dimitri but he can’t, _couldn’t_ take it anymore. There’s no turning back. 

Jun is the first person he’s ever met who doesn’t care about any of the things he was raised to live and die for. He’s never tried this hard for anyone. He’s never tried hard for anything, really, except to be free. So he’s throwing everything into it. Not just that, but he thinks that she might need a friend too. 

He can’t say all that, though. 

“Do you mind?” He asks quietly. 

Jun shakes her head before remembering he can barely see her, too. “No, but...”

Sylvain lets himself be relieved for a second, even happy and he doesn’t want her to finish that sentence. So he puts a hand on his forehead dramatically despite his theatrics getting visually lost in the shadows. “I knew it, you hate me!” He pretends to swoon. “I’m hurt! I thought our connection was eternal!” 

Sylvain can tell Jun wants to laugh even when she’s annoyed. It comes out in her voice. “What kind of books have you been _reading_ ,” she demands to know and he smirks, knowing the danger’s passed. 

“Only the finest tomes for you, my flower!” He exclaims. His best (worst?) quality is that he has no shame. 

“Can I just run you through now?”

“Wow, that’s coming on strong…we barely know each other, this is all happening so fast…” He drawls. 

Jun searches around the forest floor for something to throw at him, eyes having adjusted to the lightlessness. It’s really becoming a vicious habit for her. 

“You think I’m funny, admit it. It’s okay, no one’s around,” he declares. 

“Never,” Jun replies swiftly. _Goddess_ , it probably says something bad about him that he likes her so much. 

A lull passes. He says, sincerely, braver in the blackness, “I’m trying hard because I like you. Good enough answer for you?” 

Jun’s stoicism cracks as she blinks rapidly and tries to make out his expression. Her tone wobbles. “Um-”

“Aha! Have you fallen for me yet?” Sylvain deflects quickly. Okay, scratch what he thought about shame, that was too much. _I like you, as a friend_ , he wants to say. _I think. That’s all I want, right? That’s all I can have? Wait, do I_ like _like Jun?_

“Shut up, I’m going to sleep now.” He hears a whispered _idiot_ , followed by the sound of footsteps. 

_Shit._

* * *

Jeralt is trying to teach him how to be patient enough to fish more efficiently. It’s not working out great. They’ve been sitting at the lake with their lines for what feels like forever. Sylvain’s fished before, they’ve all taught him how, but he usually has to be accompanied by three other people who take turns to entertain his endless stream of nonsense. 

“Why does it take _sooooooo_ long?” 

“Boy, if you don’t shut your trap, I’m abandoning you in the next town over.” 

“You’re supposed to be the greatest knight ever, can’t you just use your bare hands to fish? You could scoop them out of the water because you’re just that powerful?” 

“I don’t know who put these outlandish ideas in your head, but fishing is about waiting, not martial prowess. What are they teaching your generation nowadays?”

They sit in silence for so long that Sylvain starts fidgeting. He wants to ask Jeralt so many questions, but he thinks he’d be less receptive than Jun. 

Finally, Jeralt sighs. “Spit it out, boy.”

Sylvain means to ask about why he left the Knights, or his most memorable battle, he really does. But instead he blurts out, “Do you think Jun likes me?” 

Jeralt eyes him. Ah. There’s the steel gaze of a Knight of Seiros. “You’re asking me for advice on _my_ daughter?” 

Sylvain balks. He’s seen that look on dads before. “Um, no, sir. Sorry, sir. Forget I said anything. Sir.”

“Goddess, don’t make it sound like I’m about to kill you. Yes, you’re a spoiled brat, but my kid seems to like you. I don’t understand it, but you have her attention.” He directs his full gaze to Sylvain, who feels the weight of it like bricks. “Don’t waste it. Neither her nor I enjoy games. Understand?”

Sylvain nods so hard he thinks his head is going to fall off. “Yes, sir.” 

“And knock it off with the sir!”

* * *

The autumn of Horsebow Moon in Leicester is tinged with richness. Sylvain's never gone this far before, never even made it across the border. He's been at the tips of Gautier territory to Sreng, which is a barren strip of no-man's-land, a riddled battlefield between his family's icy fief and the stricken desolation of their mortal enemy's scorched desert. This is an entirely different beast. 

He's been taught his whole life that the Alliance is a bunch of decadent defectors, original sinners who had the nerve to rebel with no gods or kings and their lands gaudy and overwrought. From what he sees of the cities and towns they pass through, it’s true that money is the rule - and even in the lesser territories, everything is warm with material excess. 

But Daphnel is not what he'd expected, after learning about the Leicester Alliance in his studies. He doesn't know much, but he knows from neighboring Galatea's own history that the Hero of Daphnel doesn't have a Crest. Sylvain expected there to be famine, or shoddiness, but the people are happy. There's so much art and literature baked into everything, everything so cultivated and new. 

Jeralt and company have accepted a job driving off monsters from the lands of a minor lord, but they're not too far off from the major cities. There's so much money that they're put up in a nice inn in Mystras, a city half the size of Fhirdiad but with more statues and shops than Sylvain's ever seen in his young life. Seiros, he’s missed having a proper bed. That still doesn’t deter him from wanting to get up to mischief, however.

He finds Jun sharpening her sword in her room, and he says, "Jun, this place is unbelievable. We have to go and explore. C'moooon, all the adults are off getting briefed. Let's go have an adventure!"

Jun looks up, whetstone in hand, eyebrow quirked. 

"Have you been here before? Have you ever seen anything like this?" He rushes to the window overlooking the golden rooftops of it all and sweeps his arm out. "It's so cool!"

* * *

Finn's excitability is indefatigable. Jun can't deny it, though, she's intrigued by the sheer amount of paintings, gilded accoutrement, the sheen of a city alight. 

_Aren’t you afraid of me?_

Yet here he is, unafraid to drag her into whatever fun he has in mind, jumping in feet first. 

Jun sheathes her sword in its scabbard. 

"Okay," she says slowly. "Where to?"

* * *

The moment Jun sees the canals, she almost jumps into the water. Something about this place, sunny and bustling and filled with a million smells and myriad shouts from sellers to music teeming in the streets, makes her feel free. Then she spots the floating market, a rainbow of lanterns festooned to every kind of gondola there could be. Unbidden, Finn and Jun run along the waterfront, breathlessly pointing out everything to each other - bolts of colorful cloth being peddled, a theatre troupe reciting a series of monologues on one boat. After a brief sprint, they find an ornate overhead bridge. Loitering and letting their arms dangle off the railings, they manage to buy some fried meats and sugared pastries from a boat passing underneath. This process mainly consists of shouting, grabbing flimsy paper bowls from outstretched hands, and then hastily tossing down gold as they cross over to the other side of the bridge before the merchant is lost to them by the slow pull of the water. 

Jun hadn't noticed before, but she's been smiling so much her face hurts. Finn's grin gets wider each time he notices, and she hides her embarrassment by stuffing her face. _What a dork_ , she thinks. Every time the awkwardness of hanging out with someone relatively new intrudes, Finn just bulldozes past it, asks her a question, shares a story about a scarecrow, an anecdote about sneaking out in the middle of the night.

After the market they wander up and down the cobblestone streets, marveling at murals and shophouses several tiers high. The main shopping district has a gigantic library, and Finn, bookworm that he is, pulls her in. They loiter, admiring the dark polished wood and shelves that seem to reach undefinable heights. Jun stealthily buys some romance novels and slides them in her pack, taking care not to let Finn see. Jun knows he's a flirt who would probably tease her about it. 

She just wants to know what the big deal is, this romance concept that people love to sing and talk and fight about. She doesn't have any experience. People usually steer clear of her because she can be quiet and unnerving. Except for Finn, though, who's different and disturbing in his own way. He also has several faces, which bothers her. But that doesn't matter. With her, right now, there's just him. She likes him best that way. They're friends, and anyway, she's sure he has a girlfriend waiting for him back in his barony, intimidating, worldly, beautiful. So it's okay for them to be close, it's okay for her to notice that he can be so...handsome sometimes it makes her chest hurt a little, because nothing will ever come from it. She's safe.

* * *

Jun lets herself be enticed by the charcoals one of the shops has for sale. This time, though, Finn notices and says, "You draw?"

She shrugs. "Sometimes."

This devolves into Finn demanding she draw him, and she chucks a pencil at him. 

"Don't you have fancy portrait artists on retainer? You've got enough money," Jun remarks. 

"Yeah, but I want something by you."

* * *

That night he falls into his bed, exhausted. The mattress is so soft to him now, after weeks of sleeping on thin fabric with the texture of grass underneath, that he falls asleep instantly. The next morning he wakes at dawn, which is usually when they make camp, but he realizes that they’re no longer on the road. He lands back in the sheets and savors the feeling. He’s young and strong, but roughing it this much is still foreign to him. Sylvain hasn’t realized how much his back was just one big ache after nights on the ground.

He wakes at noon, scarfs down some of the inn’s provisions. It feels odd, not having the rhythm of travel - he looks in a bathroom mirror for the first time and barely recognizes himself. He’s flushed with sunburn under his shoddy dye job - thank the Four Saints his roots are still hidden - and his eyes don’t look like a hiding place that only works half the time. He’s in a city where no one knows his name with a legend and a girl more beautiful than God. It’s like some vibrant dreamscape borne out of his fantasies about getting away. Except it’s better, because he never could have imagined her. 

Sylvain’s narcissistic, but not overly so; he walks away from the mirror and decides that for today, he’s going to rest up. He falls asleep early in the evening with a book on his face. He sleeps so deeply, the kind of slumber you only get after exerting yourself and staying in the sun too long. He sleeps straight through the next day, waking intermittently to see Arrin check if he’s still breathing. 

In the morning he finally makes it out of his room into the dining room where the rest of the company is. There’s Arrin, brown-haired and bushy-eyed, warming her scarred hands over a cup of coffee. There’s Zylan, who’s their healer and surgeon, a quiet, reserved man who may or may not be on the run from the Empire. Arrin’s introduction had included not to mention House Nouvelle to him, lest he get angry. Ferli is their thief, who takes great pride in scaring Jeralt constantly by appearing out of nowhere, the oldest woman among them yet surprisingly spry. He hasn’t learned everybody’s name yet, but when he walks in, he’s welcomed like one of their own. The youngest among them, an offensive mage called Mercury who was the first one to teach him how to fish, grins and claps him on the back. 

“There he is. We all thought you were dead, boy,” Arrin says. “You slept like it.” 

Zylan silently passes him some food, eggs and meat. Gratefully, Sylvain scarfs it down in record time while everyone watches with amusement. Ferli says, “Growing boy, this one. Worked up an appetite after your shenanigans?” 

Sylvain coughs on some water. “Shenanigans?”

Mercury elbows him, then says, “Leave the kid alone, Ferl. He and Jun should get to have some fun. Saints know it’s been a while since we’ve been in civilization.”

Sylvain smiles. He’s still intimidated - everyone here is at least twice his age, even Mercury - so he asks, “Um, where is Jun?”

Zylan, who’s not said a word, flips a gold coin over to Ferli, who snatches it out of the air with ease. Ferli leans over with her grey-wisped burgundy curls spilling across her shoulders to grin at Zylan. “I _told_ you he wouldn’t go a full minute before asking about her.” 

The doctor just grunts in return. Arrin sighs, “You know better than to bet against Ferl, Zy.” 

“Probably thought the sleep deprivation would work in his favor.” Mercury laughs. “She’s in the stables, kiddo.” 

Sylvain walks away from the table, confused, but still suffused with warmth. 

They carry on their conversation when he’s left earshot. 

Zylan says quietly, “Never seen Jun have a friend. Think he’s worth the trouble?” 

“What, you think Gautier tracked him this far?” Mercury asks, wary.

“For their precious heir with a Crest? I’m surprised they haven’t tried a full-on assault,” Ferli states. “We can only give him so much time. Arrin, don’t give me that look. You know this can only end badly. We should be separating them, not making it harder.” 

“I’ve known Jeralt and Jun longer than any of you,” Arrin says sharply. “Have you ever seen that girl smile? She needs this.” 

“I’m with Arrin,” Mercury adds. “You’ve gotten bitter in your old age, Ferl. So it won’t last forever. Nothing does. They’re kids. So let them be kids for a little while longer.”

* * *

“I thought you were going to sleep forever.” Jun says as they’re walking along the main road. Finn had asked her what she’d wanted to do today and she had one goal: find the best bakery in the city. 

“I was tired! Anyway, I didn’t know you liked sweets.” 

“We don’t get to have them that much. What kind of food do you like?”

“Oh, I’m the same. Sweet buns, sorbet, you name it. I’m also lucky that I love fish, considering how much you and your dad love it too. Spicy things are also a plus.”

“I’m surprised you have good taste,” Jun says.

“I’m wounded.” 

“I wish.”

* * *

The pair go on a food tour like no other Sylvain’s had before - at some point they split up to cover more ground and meet back up at sunset, swapping finds while munching chocolate croissants. Sylvain suggests a warm noodle place he saw on the way over, both of them slurping hot soup after a whole day in the relative cold. Jun lights up at good food and even laughs at some of his jokes now, and it's so easy, too good, to fall into step next to her, radiant as the sun. 

* * *

Later in the evening, after running themselves ragged, Jun waits until the adults have fallen asleep and then asks Finn if he wants one more adventure.

"Do you even have to ask?" 

That's how they find themselves flat on their back in the middle of the road outside, looking up at the stars. The world seems impossibly vast and Sylvain feels so small. Jun's voice floats over.

"I like to do this sometimes."

Sylvain can see why. It's humbling and lovely at once, with the added danger of possibly getting crushed underfoot at any moment. 

Jun doesn't add: _I've never shared this with anybody else._ But he hears it anyway. 

Sylvain could've told her anything then, with his heart so full. The lying by omission seems stupid and beneath him in that moment. Even though she’d look at him differently, the walls between them - he wants to tear it all down. 

_She trusts me. Jun trusts me._

_I'm not who I say I am. I’m not Finn._

_But would you like Sylvain?_

He can hear her breathing. Sylvain inhales the cool night that's pressing down on them like gravity, the sound of crickets chirping. It seems like the two of them are the only people left on earth. He blocks out his doubts the best he can. He lets himself feel just his back to the gravel with Jun at his side. He thinks: _I want everything to stay just like this._

The big bowl of heaven facing him makes him wish for everything. _I want to be free, forever._

* * *

Jun, burnished in gold, drawing under a tree with her eyebrows furrowed, charcoal in her hand. Her hands are all black when she’s finished sketching passersby, and her face is smudged adorably. 

For an evening, they steal into the forested outskirts, sitting by a lake and dipping their toes. Water drips off her blue hair as Jun smiles at him, calling him names and laughing freely. 

_Tell her, you idiot._

It’s strange, what memory will keep for later. Sylvain will remember grasping at shadows when he decides he’s going to tell Jun the truth, but he won’t remember the exact second her back fades from view and he’s in the dark woods by himself, feeling like a dumbass. Years later, he’ll try to summon up the image, pinpoint exactly where things could’ve taken an entirely different turn. But by then, it’ll all be broad strokes. 

What he will remember, however, is the all-too-familiar voice sneering from the underbrush as clearly as a stab. 

“That your new girlfriend, _Brother_ _?”_

Sylvain spins.

“Miklan _._ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for emotional and physical domestic abuse in the first part of this chapter. bc its miklan.

Sylvain tries to make a break for it. He only finds each opening between trees blocked by soldiers of Gautier’s own militia. All of them are stony-faced and imposing. Miklan is his shadow, superimposed over one ugly grin, axe spinning in his hands. He looks like every nightmare Sylvain’s ever had. 

“How did you find me?” 

Miklan snorts. “You chose a mercenary company, a den of thieves and criminals. How do you think we found you?”

Sylvain’s blood turns to ice. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Either way, here we are.”

“What do you want, Miklan?” Sylvain growls, trying to sound braver than he actually feels. He’s hyperaware that he’s trapped. 

“Doesn’t matter much what I want, now does it? What matters is what Father wants,” Miklan scowls. “And what he wants is his darling baby boy back where he belongs. So why don’t you be a good _investment_ and stop wasting everyone’s time.”

“Thought you’d be overjoyed, Miklan,” Sylvain snaps. “You’ve always wanted me dead. So why not let me stay gone?”

“Because they’d just make another one of you,” Miklan spits, face a moue of disgust. “And I’d still be in the same stupid fucking position as before. There’s no escaping, Sylvain.” The slightest unease and doubt creeps into his expression. “Just give up and come quietly.”

Sylvain could offer, _run away with us. Be free._ But the number of murder attempts stays his tongue. No. It’s too late for any brotherly overtures. Far too late. 

He replies, “Eat shit and die.”

“Don’t let it be said I didn’t ask you nicely first.” Miklan sighs, feigning the perfect villain. “Let’s think this over carefully, baby brother. You and that girl snuck off by yourselves. In a matter of minutes, the veritable army I have at my disposal could track her down and kill her. Even if she could run away, my informant could slit her throat at any time. Father’s orders were whatever means necessary. So why not just murder whatever attachment you have to some street rat?” 

If it’s possible for Sylvain’s entire body temperature to drop any further, it does. “You fucking idiot,” he shouts. “Her father is the Blade Breaker. You’d never make it out alive.” 

Miklan lifts one shoulder lazily. “So?”

Sylvain’s eyes warm with tears and his hands start to shake as the realization sets in. “You can’t do this.”

“I can. Happily.” Miklan’s eyes cut across him and he smiles dreadfully. “You can either save the girl, or be the one who gets her killed. What’s it gonna be, little brother?”

* * *

A chilling amount of time passes before Jun realizes she hasn’t sensed Finn behind her when she gets to the tree line. She tries to reason that he dawdled, or got a little lost. She waits only a minute, her skin crawling, then dashes back in. 

“ _Finn!_ ”

* * *

“You’re bluffing,” Sylvain says angrily, willing the tears not to spill over. Miklan's own scarlet hair blurs into a red streak against dim woods and the brown of his armor. “Father needs me to come quietly and not to make a fuss. You wouldn’t dare-”

He’s slammed against a tree faster than he can blink, the twisted expression on Miklan’s face alight with gloating. Splinters are already gathering on his back, and he can feel how much his older brother wants him to bleed.

“But then I wouldn’t get to see you suffer,” Miklan snarls. “This isn’t about Father. It’s between you and me. You want to throw away everything I ever wanted for some bitch, you ungrateful bastard? Then I’m going to make sure you regret it. Choose. You or her.”

“Fuck you, you insignificant-” 

Miklan’s fist is a familiar foe, slammed hard enough into Sylvain’s stomach to steal air. He wheezes. Miklan cracks a fist across his face, then as Sylvain doubles over he gets a series of kicks to the gut. But Miklan’s sadistic rage is stopped by the eldest of soldiers, who grips him so powerfully he's stopped in his tracks. Miklan may be 19 and filled with unholy fury, but he's still subdued by somebody more than his equal. His gaze is so resentful towards the clear battalion leader, it could melt flesh. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Miklan snaps at him.

The older man says, "We have our orders to bring him in alive and unharmed."

"I am the scion of House Gautier, you peon, you answer to _me-_ "

Sylvain, coughing, still manages to laugh through the iron taste in his mouth and his fuzzy, clouded, disoriented mind. 

“You act all in control, but you’re still just a wild dog on a leash, Brother,” he gasps as his throat burns. He swallows some blood on his next inhale, but breathing still feels like a relieving salve to the pain. 

“Don’t tempt me, you little shit,” Miklan roars. To Sylvain, the sound is so cacophonous it resounds throughout the whole forest and shakes the trees at their roots. All the men falling like wooden statues after a tremor at his feet. He blinks and reality adjusts itself back to normal accordingly. 

Miklan is restrained from more blows, then struggles to hold his composure. He shakes the commanding officer off bitterly. “There may be limits on you. But not on your girlfriend.”

Was there ever really a choice? Sylvain is beaten, mouth bloody, lying down on the ground with a pain so old it might as well be his brother in Miklan's stead.

“Promise me she won’t be hurt,” Sylvain says. “And I’ll go with you.” 

Miklan pulls his lips over his teeth in an imitation of a victorious smile. 

“See, men? I get results,” he smirks as Sylvain’s hauled to his feet by two blank faced men. “Not a hair on her head. As long as you’re a good boy.”

“Let me say goodbye at least, please-”

“And give the game away? We can’t have that,” Miklan says triumphantly. “Don’t worry. We’ve said goodbye for you. She won’t ask questions.” 

The tears leak. Sylvain hangs his head, his entire body one disgusting heartbeat that won’t stop. He summons the energy to try to fight, but the two grown men have him pinned. Every bit of skin is cold sweat and fear. The world is down to the metallic tang of defeat in his mouth. His defiance fades. “Why do you hate me so much? Why? You’re supposed to be my brother. My family. You’re supposed to-”

“I was supposed to have a Crest,” Miklan interrupts, voice dead. “You shouldn’t exist. You’re just a burden I have to drag around, who got to have everything I couldn’t. Everything’s easier for you. Always has been. Here’s a lesson about family I’ll teach you gladly - you’re alone. Nobody is looking out for you. You’re a weapon in a boy. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

The last thing Sylvain sees is another fist coming for him. Then, darkness.

* * *

By the time Jun reaches the clearing she thought she heard voices in, there’s nobody there.

* * *

Sylvain's parents receive him warmly at the manor, his father hiding his impatience over perfectly practiced paternal relief. His mother, over sips of wine at the dinner table, defends him by saying, "Perhaps it's good that he gets all these boyish fancies out young, dear."

Sylvain doesn't say anything. He thought he would be angry, but he's not. He can scarcely feel a thing. Miklan steers clear of him for the time being, likely chastised for why Sylvain showed up with a black eye and bruises, but Sylvain knows he's just biding his time.

Dimitri is ecstatic to see him, if confused as to why he would run. Dimitri doesn't know about Miklan, an unspoken pact with the others that he can't know because he's so innocent. Ingrid is cold at first, angry that he abandoned them, but Felix and Glenn talk her round. They both act like nothing happened and if Sylvain trains longer hours with them, neither of them say a thing. 

He's given up. There's no escaping.

* * *

Jun demands they comb the entire forest. After a whole night of searching, someone gently suggests that Finn, rather than abducted, got picked up by his parents and was too overjoyed to say a proper farewell. Upon investigating his room, all his stuff is gone back at the inn, with a note that simply says "Goodbye" in a messy scrawl. 

She doesn't notice that a hair ribbon - she buys light blue ones in packs - is missing from her pack. 

Jun resolves that they’ll see each other again someday. 

Jun doesn't cry. She never does.

* * *

Sylvain finds a blue ribbon with a note attached to it in his room one day, delivered from the battalion leader who'd held Miklan back. 

**I'm sorry, boy.**

He doesn't recognize the handwriting, but he would bet it's the person who gave him up. The ire he should feel is bubbling under the surface, but he just feels grateful. He recognizes it's one of the hair ribbons Jun had an endless supply of. He didn't just dream her up. She's still out there, and maybe, one day, he'll get to make her laugh again.

* * *

A year later, Dimitri's entire family dies in front of him and Glenn is gone. A whole race of people are accused of the slaughter, and are submitted to genocide. Dimitri is barely out of funeral blacks before he's fighting to keep their rights. He fails, of course. Sylvain tries to help, but he can’t do much as someone who hasn’t been declared heir. (Yet.) 

Ingrid and Felix come out of the mourning period unrecognizable, Ingrid a wisp of who she was and Felix darker, sharp-tongued and more single-minded than Sylvain ever remembers. The space between them where Glenn used to stand feels like a gaping void that'll never heal over.

* * *

Jun is tempted to shut herself off in the aftermath of Finn, but that’s no life to live. Jeralt tells her one day that _the Eisners fall plenty. So you took a swing. You get back up on your feet. You swing back. Loss isn't easy, kid. But you try again._

Jun travels all around Fodlan and beyond with her father and the company. She starts to open up around the others more. Ferli braids her hair while Zylan teaches her how to play chess. Mercury likes to sneak her banned books when her father isn't looking. She even makes friends of her own age in Brigid and Dagda. One of her said friends jokes that she'd be excellent at poker with her face and takes her to a gambling den for her eighteenth birthday, where she proceeds to win the pot. She even gets a tattoo, rainbow fish curling around her bicep. 

Sometimes she wonders about the boy who was her first friend, where he is, what he's doing. Jun wonders if she will ever see him again. She could find him now, but so much time has passed, it feels strange - especially when he hasn't tried to find her. She writes him letters in her bunk that she never knows where to send, so they languish in a decorative box. Their memories together become fainter, more traces than full, clear representations, but she doesn't forget the impressions they left on her. But she has a life now, she's grown and she can't stay in the past forever.

* * *

When Sylvain turns 16, he's named heir of the Gautier House. Miklan is unceremoniously turned out with only his belongings after Sylvain's birthday celebration. He watches the horses go, and a new servant timidly asks him if Sylvain will miss his brother. 

"Miss him? No," Sylvain says, uncharacteristically blunt. "I'm jealous he gets to leave." 

After Miklan's dismissal, Sylvain contemplates actually taking on the responsibility of being a heir. However, the women who've slowly been ramping up their approach of him only get worse after he's inherited his title. He's 16 and receiving more proposals than Ingrid ever did at the height of her father's efforts to sell her off like a prize pony. 

Dimitri's iron wrought guilt and sense of propriety in contrast to Felix's acrimonious disdain for the Kingdom, House of Fraldarius, the title he's inherited and his father. Sylvain admits, he doesn't have great examples of heirs. He settles for a shitty middle: he turns everything up to a hundred and goes after Lord Gwendal's daughter, determined to make his name as a skirt chaser, an insincere rake. Just to see what girls will come after him then. The game seeps in his bones after a while. He gets too good at it, the charming, lying and manipulating like a second skin. The next couple years are a haze of fluid misogyny, hurried escapes from girls' rooms in the middle of the night, walking home alone in the cold. Sex and romance are easy compared to everything else in his life. The emptiness of it all only grates when he lets himself think about it. 

Then he, Ingrid, Felix, Dedue and Dimitri are slated to go to the Officer's Academy together. He's excited, of course - there should be a whole bevy of gorgeous ladies there who haven't heard of his escapades. Yet. That and the illustrious learning from other cultures, blah blah blah. When they arrive, even his flippancy is floored by the vast gorgeousness and sacrilege of the place. For five minutes, and then he's already planning where to get it on. Not the dining hall, it's filthy - there are so many bits and places that are ancient and gross as hell, but he has to say, certain shaded parts of the gardens would be perfect. He hears that Dimitri's life was threatened, then saved by a mercenary - he wonders for a second, then dismisses it. He's thought about Jun plenty of times over the years, but she's probably on another continent by now. There are scores of mercenaries all over Fodlan, even in peacetime. 

Sylvain's wandered off from Ingrid and Felix's boring bickering. He stands by the entrance of the Blue Lion's room, admiring the fine form of anybody who passes by. He retreats back inside after Dimitri, idling outside, shoots him a glare. _Yikes, you think he'd be less uptight now that he's not in Fhirdiad anymore._

He spots a woman talking to His Highness. _Oh,_ nice _catch, Dimi!_ He can't see her face, but she seems to have a nice figure from what he can see behind her cape. He's all ready to have a smooth remark in case she says hello to him, just to make his bro look more gentlemanly in comparison. _Well, well! It must be my lucky day today, being approached by such a beauty._

His gaze slowly rises as he checks her out...she also has long...dark blue hair. His throat constricts. _No._

She turns. Sylvain has to stop himself from doing a double take when she does, because she's stunning, but also because she’s definitely Jun. Older and hot, because she's carrying herself with a self-assured air, swathed in grey, with the occasional plate on limb or stomach. The dagger and black boots are accentuating what he wishes wasn't covered and his mouth is dry. The pink insignia on her chest suits her, and he drags his gaze up to look at her face. The lovely eyes, he remembers, though she has more smile lines than before. He tries not to linger on her full lips. There's no denying it, she looks good. He thought she was pretty before, but now she's dangerously, ridiculously sexy. 

Their eyes meet. 

_Fuuuuuuuuuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sylvain @ dimitri: on god we're gonna get u some ass bro  
> sylvain seeing jun: oh shit oh fuck


End file.
